In the worst possible way
by TheWhiteCrayon
Summary: He laughs too, but only because he's drunk -and with a little luck he won't remember a thing in the morning. / Or, the story of us. (a tragedy)


In the worst possible way

 _He laughs too, but only because he's drunk -and with a little luck he won't remember a thing in the morning. / Or, the story of us. (a tragedy)_

 **Just a little drabble I came up with after watching season 2's** ** _exposed_** **again. Thank you for reading and I hope you'll enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own lie to me.**

Even if she were poison and wine

(mixed together into one incredible, bittersweet and deathly cocktail)

he'd still want her.

(even if it killed him – he'll always want her)

x

He tries to be a good person, you know. He really does. He tries everyday. _(or at least he tries to try, anyway)_

He tries to be the person she sees when she looks at him, tries to be a good person, always -even when she _isn't_ watching.

It just doesn't always work out that way.

(and even then, she still sees that good person inside of him -even when its not really there)

x

She's a different story though. She really is _good._ (all the _f_ u _c_ k _i_ n _g_ time.) There really isn't a bad bone in her body.

And people say that about their friends (loved ones) all the time, eventhough its almost never true. Because they _want_ to believe it, so badly.

But not her and not him. Because he can see through all that -see through what he _wants_ to believe, and stare right into the fucking face of the truth. (and thats a scary thing sometimes, but not with her. Never with her.)

She really is too good for him, he knows. (But -at the end of the day- he's still too much of a selfish ass to _care_ about that.)

x

The truth is, Cal Lightman could read everybody like a freaking book. He could just, tear them open without a second thought and read the words carved in their bones.

(But having every book in the world available to you doesn't really matter all that much when you can't have the one book you actually _want_ to read)

He can peel her open and look inside as much as he wants to, but it's like she's written in some kind of secret language he doesn't understand. And no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to decode it.

x

She sort of reminds him of his cracked bathroom tiles.

He always tends to keep prodding them, crumbling them (to dust) a little more with every push, every shove, and every scratch of his hands.

Breaking down what's already cracked, every time he gets near it, (it's kind of what he does, isn't it?) eventhough he knows he should leave them alone, that they'll be (kind of) alright if he does.

He just, _thrives_ of the feeling of a crumbling tile (Foster) underneith his fingertips.

He can't seem to stop it, not even when he wants to.

(he always leaves _destruction_ wherever he goes.)

x

"And I was the fool who thought you actually loved me. _That you could actually love me_."

(she smells like salty tears and bittersweet vodka)

It's all such a fucking _tragedy_ he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

x

He's a little bit like gunpowder.

(nothing but a bit of _dust_ on his own, but)

In combination with her _spark,_ well

-he becomes _lethal._

x

"Don't you think we're getting a little old for this Cal?" she whispers. "Aren't you done yet?"

And its like breathing in toxic air -she is. Hurts with every breath, (killing him, maybe) but he can't let her go, anyway. (so, no, he's not _done_ yet)

"Age's just a number Gill," he says. (and he _chooses_ not to see the tears in her eyes -eventhough he sees bloody _e_ v _e_ r _y_ t _h_ i _n_ g )

(he downs another tequilla shot, just so he won't have to look at the pain staining her face anymore)

"I'm tired, Cal," she says.

(they fall asleep on the couch in his office that night)

x

 _she_

shows up in designer high heels.

(all classy and elegance and polished perfection)

 _he_

shows up in old worn sneakers.

(all careless and smudgy and public decay)

x

One night (when he's got her good and drunk and clinging to the collar of his jacket) she brings her mouth to his ear, allowing him to _taste_ the scent of whisky on her breath.

"Our lives are slipping away Cal," she whispers.

(and)

"We're both gonna die alone together."

Tears roll down her flushed face onto his chin and she laughs sharp and raspy (not light and warm, like usual) as she lies her head on his shoulder again.

(He laughs too, but only because he's drunk -and with a little luck he won't remember a thing in the morning.)

x

He's not the man he used to be anymore -the man he was before _G_ i _l_ l _i_ a _n_ F _o_ s _t_ e _r._

(she's changed too, sure, _but that's harder to admit,_ isn't it?)

Sometimes it's the single most _a_ m _a_ z _i_ n _g_ thing in the world. (and sometimes, it just hurts)

(he wouldn't give her up even if it _could_ bring his old self back.)

x

 _(because fairytales don't always end in they way you'd want them to, do they?)_

And maybe they weren't meant to end up in the way they _wanted_ to end. Maybe they weren't meant to live happily ever after, maybe they're just not the kind of people who do. _(truth or happiness, darling, never both)_

They'll end up together though (one way or another) and that's gotta be worth something.

 **If you can spare the time, please leave me a review!**


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